Scars
by MizzSY
Summary: Plenty of the ARC team have scars. Metions of self-harm, violence and canon character death.


** I HAVE A COMPETITION UP: WINNER GETS A STORY OF ANY PAIRING, GENRE, RATING ETC AND (ALMOST) ANY FANDOM. GO TO MY PROFILE FOR DETAILS.**

Title: Scars

Summary: Plenty of the ARC team have scars.

Warnings: Brief mentions of self-harm and violence, canon character death.

Characters/Pairings: Connor/Abby, brief Connor/Becker if you squint, Danny, Cutter.

Rating: T

Word Count: 1470

* * *

Danny had scars, he had several in fact.

He had one, long, thin zig zagging scratch along the length of his thigh after his first of many motor cycle crashes. After so many years it was now faint and barely noticeable, it was never the one people stared at anyway.

When he entered the showers, he always aw people's eyes dragging to the thick, rag gash on his abdomen, a reminder of the one and only time he'd been stabbed. It happened within a few months of his promotion to Detective Constable, he'd rushed to arrest a young man during a night club raid, not thinking to search the kid first. That was the last time he made that mistake. With his faster actions, the boy easily deflected Danny, and then sunk a knife into his flesh, before fleeing.

Danny remembered staggering back, hands getting soaked in sticky blood as he tried to grab handle sticking out of him. He remembered falling to the floor, feeling sick and convulsing at the pain spreading through his body.

Then he forgot, up until he woke in a hospital bed, with an ugly row of stitching in his abdomen, and being told it would never fade.

Today, as he took his shower, Becker passed through heading for the lockers room, but his head jerked back as he got an eyeful of the mark on Danny's body.

Danny smiled to himself, not trying to cover it up.

Because some scars didn't have to be hidden.

* * *

Becker had scars. He knew they should be hidden.

Jess' face after she caught a glimpse of them after the Therocephalian incident told him that. The memory of how he got them had faded, but he knew the physical marks may never go.

Iraq, being captured and tortured, those were the details he could recall. The reminders on his back helped him fill in some of the gaps, whether he wanted to or not.

It had become an automatic response for him to keep his back out of view, he didn't want people to know he'd been abused, been hurt, like it was a weakness.

But then he'd seen Danny's scar, a product of a stupid mistake and the man had been proud to display it, maybe he too should stop hiding.

Becker became aware someone had joined him in the showers and instinctively spun round, back now facing the wall. He thought he was alone, that's why he picked this time to shower. It seemed his turn had not been quick enough however.

"Becker?" Connor said in a shocked voice. "Who did that?"

The Captain closed his eyes; the tech-geek though they were recent injuries, if he didn't explain, Connor might tell everyone.

But he didn't want to tell a story he could only remember in a blur.

Before he could open his eyes to answer, Connor had walked up to him, placing a hand on one of the red, slightly risen welts. With a gloved hand, he traced the flog-mark down Becker's back. Instead of flinching, he welcomed the touch.

"It was a long time ago, Iraq." He said, giving away the barest description. Connor nodded, the spray of the shower had started to soak his clothes, and left his hand where it was.

"So they're not recent."

Becker shook his head, swallowing nervously before giving a brief smile.

Because some scars weren't weaknesses.

* * *

Connor had scars, one's that, at the time when he was filled with nothing but crazy delirious thoughts, he had hoped would stay.

As a teenager, he would frequently lock himself in the bathroom, pretending to be going in a bath. As he set the water running at a scalding temperature, he removed the loose tile out from the wall and take out the knife he hid there. One of many in the kitchen, but this one cut the best.

He would run it under the boiling hot water, a flimsy attempt at sterilising it of whatever it had picked up in its hiding place, and then sit back and run the blade over his leg. He chose his leg because it was easy to hide, even if the material irritated the cuts for days after.

He did it so many times, just for relief from the stress, the anger and depression he got in everyday life. Sometimes, he would be forced into a situation, and just as naturally as the bad feeling came, so did the urge to hold the knife in his hands. It gave him control, it let him mark himself.

Sometimes, when he showered or bathed, he would just look down at the litter of cuts, some red and new, some white and faded, and smile. This was a canvas of his broken mind.

But when his dad found the knife after the old tile fell from the wall, it stopped, and for many years Connor felt over whelmed. He scratched at his old cuts but it wasn't the same.

Nowadays, he looked back on what he did and wondered what the hell had gone through his mind back then. Instead of looking at them in awe, he now felt reviled that he had done something like that to himself, leaving those injured forever. They reminded him of just what Connor was like when he was vulnerable, made him believe that he was weak and insane at heart.

He was in the infirmary, again, and bored. A nurse had bandaged a wound on his leg whilst he was unconscious, and he was glad he had been. She would've seen the scars and it wasn't something he wanted to talk about.

The door opened, and Connor turned his head to see both the nurse and Abby enter the room.

"Connor!" Abby cried, coming over to his bedside and flinging her arms around him. "You ok?"

"Yeah, great." Connor choked out from the lung crushing hug.

Politely, the nurse prised Abby away from Connor to get at his bandage. As she unwound the material, she leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"You don't have to be ashamed, Mr Temple." She said soothingly. "She won't be mad at you for it."

Before he could reply, she leaned up, giving him a sweet smile before quickly vacating the room, leaving Abby glowering in her wake.

"What she say to you?"

Connor shifted uncomfortably under her stare, before grabbing hold of her hand.

"Abs, there's something you should see."

Because some scars weren't shameful.

* * *

Abby had scars, one that she was too painfully aware of.

At night, she'd run her fingers over the ugly thing. A wound she received from a time before any of her ancestors were even born. It had only taken the raptor's claw seconds to rip the deep, brown red wound into her side, but it would always be there.

She'd bled, and Connor had been terrified. Terrified that the nearby predators would smell the blood and come for the easy kill, terrified he'd be alone, and terrified he'd lose her.

She'd lost consciousness for most of the healing period, and at first, she thought herself lucky to survive such an attack, that she still lived.

But then the nights started where all she'd do was stare and stare at the disfiguring mark. It was vain, yes, but having it there, so obvious and so revolting. How anyone could look at her, how could Connor, when she could barely stomach the sight of it.

If only they'd run faster, if only they hadn't gone for food that had already been claimed, if only she'd fought harder. All the mistakes made were constantly in her head if she let her thoughts turn to it.

In their make shift home, Abby shifted away from Connor, trying to break their kiss before it became too heated.

"Abs?" he asked. "What's up?"

"Nothing!" She insisted, increasing the distance between them further, but before she could get too far, he'd grabbed her by the shoulder.

And he knew her; a year with only each other let them know straight away.

Without a word, he lifted her top so the scar was visible, and pressed his lips to it.

"You're beautiful, Abby." He said, looking into her eyes. "Every single part of you."

Abby's lip shook, as she leaned in and kissed him back, knowing it was true.

Because some scars weren't ugly.

* * *

Cutter had scars.

Stephen walked into the room, and let the creatures maul him.

And Cutter couldn't look away.

And he could not get help from anybody.

The building burnt around him, and he knew his life was ebbing away. But that image, of his friend and his colleague, was the thing most prominently on his mind.

Because some scars are mental

And some scars don't fade.


End file.
